The Dancing Men
by CornishKid
Summary: Part I of The Violet Hour. It's been months since Moriarty's message. There hasn't been a sign of him since, and Sherlock is looking for a distraction. John and Mary are adapting to parenthood, and Sherlock is desperate to get John out of the house. "The Dancing Men" may be just the case to peak John's interest. SPOILER ALERT for HIS LAST VOW
1. Chapter 1

**_AN:_** Hello, everybody! Thank you for stopping by to read this story! This is part 1 of my (as of now) 6 part arc. It picks up from where season 3 left off (here there be SPOILERS. You've been warned). I'm currently in the process of writing part 2, _The Silver Blaze_. I hope you like this installment enough to continue on to the next. Please feel free to review!

Just so you all know, I'm going back and editing this story as I continue to write and develop the plot of the next installments. I'll try to time stamp each chapter after I've edited it.

_**Edited: 3/18/14**_

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><p><strong><em>THE VIOLET HOUR (PART I: THE DANCING MEN)<em>**

**_CHAPTER 1_**

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><p><em>Request for: Childcare Provider<em>

_Age of Child: 5 months_

_Times needed: Weekdays 7am-9pm_

_Weekends: Upon request_

_Wages: to be negotiated_

_Please Provide: references, birth certificate, criminal background, fingerprints, dental records_

_Contact below._

* * *

><p>"What do you think?" Sherlock asked as he glanced at John from over the top of his morning paper. His breakfast, which Mrs. Hudson had brought up, lay untouched on the coffee table.<p>

John blinked several times. Clutched in his hand was a small piece of notebook paper, which Sherlock had hastily scribbled on. John read it again... and again.

"I still don't understand what I'm looking at," he said after the third read-through.

"I thought I made that rather clear," Sherlock replied. "It's an advertisement for a nanny."

"Yes," said John. He felt a familiar twinge of irritation bubbling up in his gut. "For _my_ child. _My_ child is not yet old enough to be looked after by some stranger."

"Ridiculous," said Sherlock. He abruptly abandoned the pretense of reading the news flung himself to his feet to begin pacing the living room floor; the tail of his blue dressing gown billowed out behind him. "Mycroft and I had a nanny when we were three weeks old."

"You're not helping your case, Sherlock," John replied.

"One of the most dangerous criminals in history might have risen from the dead," Sherlock was going on, "and he'll get away with whatever he wants because of a babbling _infant_!"

"Glad to know it'll be Abby's fault when Moriarty takes over the world," said John dryly. He couldn't bring himself to be too harsh on his friend, though, as he watched Sherlock pace restlessly. He briefly wondered whether Sherlock was out of nicotine patches again. John cleared his throat and softened his tone. "So you haven't had a break, then?"

"Not one!" Sherlock swiped a pile of papers to the ground. "I don't understand. I simply don't. I saw him - I watched him bleed out in front of me."

"People have been known to fake that sort of thing before," John pointed out.

If Sherlock caught on to the jab, he didn't let it show. His pacing slowed as he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes.

"Oh, we've been over this, though," said Sherlock. It sounded as if he were speaking to himself. "It doesn't matter _how_ he did it. It only matters _why_ he's come back. And why _now_? He let me spend the better part of two years dismantling his network. I tore down everything he'd worked for his entire life. _Why _would he sit by and watch that happen?"

"I don't understand is what he's waiting for," said John. "His face pops up on every tele in England, and then there's nothing for almost eight months. How do we know it was really him and not some blockhead using his face to scare people?"

"Oh, John," said Sherlock sadly. He stopped pacing to fix John with a very disappointed gaze. "Fatherhood really has domesticated you. All your sense of wonder, your desire for adventure, the hunger for the chase... gone."

John felt his jaw clench despite his best efforts to keep his temper in check.

"Yeah, well excuse me for wishing the world was just a bit safer now I'm responsible for something."

"I see," said Sherlock with a disdainful snort. "it hasn't domesticated you then. It's just made you an idiot."

"Right," said John, standing up. "Well, it's been _lovely_ catching up. I'd better get back to becoming an idiot now."

"John -" Sherlock stopped his friend just as John had put one foot on the mat. His tone had gone very soft; it was a voice John rarely heard the detective use, and it made him stop short. Sherlock took a deep breath in before he continued. "I haven't been able to find anything because - well, frankly, I work better when I've got you. You're a great help to me, really."

John hesitated for a moment with his hand on the doorknob. He spun around and faced Sherlock, who was wringing his hands behind his back anxiously, eyeing John with the same air of a dog waiting for a tennis ball to be thrown.

"You rehearsed that, didn't you?" said John suspiciously.

"I'd really hoped that I wouldn't have to use it," Sherlock admitted.

John laughed. After a moment Sherlock did too.

"Right," said John, "I'll talk to Mary tonight and see what she thinks."

"Good idea," said Sherlock. He clapped his hands together and plopped himself down at the table, opening his laptop in one swift movement. "Why don't you all come 'round for breakfast tomorrow. Eight o'clock?"

"Eight?" John repeated. "In the morning?"

"Yes. That's when the first interview is."

John gawked at him.

"You already put the advertisement in!"

The corner of Sherlock's lips curved up into a smile, as if he'd been hiding some secret all along.

"Mary asked me three days ago," he confessed.

* * *

><p>The following morning saw John, Mary, Sherlock and little Abby crowded around in the Baker Street living room as nanny after nanny walked in. Sherlock dismissed most before John could even offer them cups of tea, and still more were turned away within five minutes. One that John was particularly attached to - a cheery older woman whose husband had recently passed away - Sherlock shoved out the door just as they had begun to discuss wages.<p>

"Murdered her husband for the life insurance policy," he spouted before John could begin to protest. "Boring."

John was so angry he didn't bother asking Sherlock how he'd deduced something like that. The doctor looked to his wife for support, but Mary only shrugged in response. It was clear she wouldn't go against what Sherlock thought.

The day dragged on, names were crossed off the list, and Abby grew fussier. Around three, Mary disappeared to Sherlock's room to try and put the baby down for a nap. Abby's cries and Mary's cooing could be heard drifting down the hall.

"How many have we got left?" John asked, rubbing his temple.

"Just one," said Sherlock absentmindedly. He was tossing resumes into a wastebasket, pausing occasionally to tear in half those who he'd obviously despised. "Violet Horner. Twenty-four. An artist looking for a day job."

"Lovely," said John. He was beginning to get a pulsing headache, and Abby's escalating screams were not helping matters. "Let's hope she's not really moonlighting as a serial arsonist or something."

"Unlikely," said Sherlock. "Though she is American, so that's... well, anyway. And she's about -" he glanced at the clock on the mantel, "-fifteen minutes late."

John sighed.

"I'm going to check on the girls."

This was code for, "I'm going to go see about shutting that baby up, now." Sherlock grunted approvingly. John exited through the kitchen, depositing empty tea cups and plates as he went, and made his way to Sherlock's room. Abby was still wailing when John opened the door. Mary was determinedly calm as she rocked her daughter slowly from side to side. An abandoned bottle lay on Sherlock's night table, half empty.

"How's it going?" John asked, closing the door behind him.

"Swimmingly," Mary replied sarcastically.

"Mind if I try?" John extended his arms.

"Knock yourself out." Mary passed the little bundle off to John. Abby fussed a little bit and began to hiccough, but her crying ceased.

"Of course," said Mary. She was pretending to be jealous, but her relief overwhelmed the playful snap. "Daddy's little girl."

"I figure I ought to get as much of this as I can," said John. "She won't like me much when she starts bringing boys home."

"That's a way off still," said Mary.

"Thirty years, at lest," said John forcefully. He gazed down at his daughter affectionately. Even in her distressed states she was the most precious thing John had ever laid eyes on. Her face was very round and full. She had Mary's soft eyes and John's straw-colored hair. As John swayed her in his arms, her eyelids began to flutter closed.

"How many more does he have lined up?" Mary asked, lowering her voice as they watched Abby drift off.

"Just one," John muttered. "But apparently she's running late, so it's not promising."

"We don't know yet," said Mary bracingly. "There might be a reasonable explanation."

"Yeah, well, she's American," he retorted, as if this settled the matter.

They were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell ringing and Mrs. Hudson's voice calling for Sherlock. Both Mary and John glanced quickly at Abby to see if she would stir. The baby twitched in her blanket, but mercifully remained unconscious.

"Here," said Mary, bringing around the car seat.

They buckled her in and covered her with the blanket before quietly sneaking out to greet the next candidate. She was a young woman with long, soft brown hair and sparkling blue eyes, dressed simply in a dark cardigan. Around her neck she wore a simple pendant. Sherlock had already seated her in the client chair and was now eyeing her carefully from his leather seat. The woman appeared to be trying very hard not to pay Sherlock any attention; she kept glancing at him awkwardly out of the corner of her eye. When John and Mary entered, she sprung from her seat, apparently relieved to interact with someone other than Sherlock. She extended her right hand, which was adorned with a sparkling silver watch.

"Hello," she said. Her accent was clipped and sharp, though her voice was very melodic. "You're the Watsons? Mr. Holmes was just telling me -"

"Yes," said John, shaking her hand. "I'm John, this is Mary, and we've just put Abby down for a nap."

"Nice to meet you," the woman replied as she shook Mary's hand too. "I'm Violet... and I apologize for being late. I'm still learning my way around. Got lost a few times."

"Where are you from?" Mary asked as they took their seats.

"Connecticut," Violet replied cordially, "close to Hartford.

"Oh, lovely," said Mary as a flicker of recognition colored her tone. "I've always thought the Northeast beautiful. What brought you to London?"

"Art," said Violet. "And a need for a change. I'm trying to open a gallery, but border control won't accept that for a work visa, so I've got three months to find a job."

"Well let's get to it, then," said John, smiling as he picked up his notebook. "Do you have experience working with children?"

"Babysitting cousins when I was a teenager," Violet replied quickly.

John nodded and scribbled this answer down.

"How old were they?"

"Three and five at the time."

Scribble.

"No experience with infants, then?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Alright," said John, scribbling, "just checking... and, are there any days or times you're not available?"

"I'm free during the day," said Violet. "Gallery showings are at night, usually -"

"You're hired," said Sherlock.

Everyone in the room jumped.

"What?" said Violet after a long silence.

"Yeah, what?" John echoed.

"She's hired," Sherlock repeated. He sounded offended that nobody else had reached the same conclusion he had.

"I've only asked two questions!" said John incredulously.

"Oh, please," said Sherlock with a roll of his eyes. "I only let you do that to make you feel better. We both know I'm doing the _real_ interview."

"Sorry," said Violet, "what's happening?"

"She's perfectly qualified," said Sherlock. "Over-qualified, in fact."

"Over qualified?" said Mary. "She's an artist."

"An artist with two Ph. D's - one in some sort of social science, and the other having something to do with art, I presume."

Another stunned silence. Violet narrowed her eyes in Sherlock's direction, her mouth slightly agape.

"How did you -?" Violet began.

"Don't -" John warned.

Too late.

"-how did I know?" Sherlock finished, talking very rapidly now. "Glad you asked. First, when you mentioned babysitting your cousins you said 'when I was a teenager.' Most people, Americans especially, refer to stages of their life by indicating what year they were in school. But you didn't say, 'When I was in high school,' suggesting that you didn't have an average academic experience. Could have been home-schooled, but you find it easy enough to socialize with strangers, so college at a young age looks more likely.

"Next, there's your clothes: all bought within the last year, meaning you just recently re-did your entire wardrobe. Probably your things were getting too small and too worn - you hardly ever got new things as a child because your family was more concerned with you making grades than having you look nice, but you had to impress a lot of posh people - you're wearing all designer brands - no - designer knock-offs. You can't afford the real things, you're an artist. But you are wearing two very expensive items - your watch and your necklace, given to you in the last five years to mark two important occasions. Jewelry's a common present for graduations, hence two degrees.

"Then there's the fact that you've chosen to seek employment as a nanny rather than a cashier, accountant, or other mundane job, indicating you prefer social work. You have experience with it, probably one of your degrees is a social science. And the other has to do with art, being that you are an artist."

A long silence followed before Violet muttered, "Wow."

"He does that," said John.

"Was I right?" asked Sherlock. "What are your degrees in?"

"Behavioral Psychology and Art Therapy," Violet replied blankly.

"You didn't put that on your resume," said John, dumbfounded.

"I usually don't like to show off to people I don't know," Violet responded.

"Intriguing," said Sherlock. He pressed his palms together in a prayer-like position as he surveyed Violet intently. "Genius usually loves an audience. Also interesting that you didn't delve into a math or natural science. Most child prodigies excel in those areas."

"I have to make sure you have more puzzles to work out, don't I?" said Violet dryly. "So when do I start?"

"Immediately," said Sherlock, springing to his feet. "Someone will be round your flat later this afternoon to childproof it, and John will drop the little darling off first thing tomorrow morning. Goodbye."

He ushered Violet out of the flat, ignoring her protests.

"We'll be in touch about wages!" Mary called before Sherlock had completely shut the door.

"What - wages?" John was looking between the door, Sherlock, and Mary. "I did not agree to this! I barely know her!"

"I already told you everything you need to know," said Sherlock. He and Mary exchanged glances.

"Why does nobody ask for _my_ opinion!" cried John. "I think I should have a say, Abby's _my_ daughter!"

"John," said Mary gently, "It's been a month since I went back to work. You've been cooped up with her for ages. I think it's time you and Sherlock get back in business."

"I couldn't agree more," said Sherlock. John could practically smell the childlike glee oozing from the man's pores.

"You are not a part of this," John snapped. Then he rounded on Mary. "Are you saying it's not good for me to spend time with her?"

"You're a wonderful father," said Mary. "You should learn how to do that _and_ have a bit of fun."

She winked at him, then at Sherlock.

"I'll take Abby and get out of here," she said as she rose to her feet. "You boys need to find yourself a case."

John watched her leave with his mouth hanging slightly open. Sherlock was beaming at him. As soon as Mary and Abby had left, Sherlock sprang into action.

"Now then," he said, opening his laptop. "What do you think of this title for your blog: 'The Mystery of the Dancing Men'?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Edited 4/1/14**

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><p>"Well, this is it," John sighed as he fastened the buckle on Abby's car seat. "Our last day together. I'm going to miss all the great talks we've had, you know."<p>

Abby made a gurgling noise, and a large drop of drool trickled down her chin. John grabbed a cloth from his bag and wiped it off gently. Then he got into the car himself, started the engine, and took off through the quiet streets. The traffic was sparse; London wouldn't be fully awake for another hour. Here and there lights in houses flickered on as people began getting ready for the day. Sometimes John would imagine who lived in those houses in his spare time. when Abby was having a hard time getting to sleep, he'd taker for a drive and let the motion of the car sooth her. Often, he'd make up stories about people as he drove Abby around the neighborhood.

_The little old woman in number twenty-seven... married - no, divorced - three children, they never talk to her because they've all got jobs at big corporations. So she's left with nothing but her cat Milo and her baking, and - good, God. Maybe Sherlock's right_, thought John. _I've been domesticated_.

All the more reason that, after several hours of arguing heatedly with Mary, John had conceded that it would be good for him to get out of the house. Parenthood had been a nice distraction from all of his problems - there was the discovery of Mary's previous life as an assassin, the memory of his best friend becoming a murderer, and the looming threat of Moriarty's return. John wasn't eager to find out what that last development meant for himself, his family, or Sherlock; Moriarty, if he was indeed back, would not be able to resist meddling with their lives. Despite everything that had been going on, John would be a liar to say he hadn't missed the excitement.

Violet's flat was situated close to Soho Square - a district that John wasn't very familiar with. He passed several bars and nightclubs on the way to her flat; this discovery did little to settle his nerves. At last, he pulled up next to a small brick building off a quiet side street. He checked the address to make sure he had the right place, then got himself and Abby out of the car and walked to the door to ring the buzzer.

"Hello?" said the voice on the intercom, a voice that was obviously still ladled with sleep.

"Yes, it's John, I've brought Abby."

A loud beep rang out, and the lock clicked. John stepped over the threshold into a cramped looking stairwell. He checked the piece of paper in his hand once again. Third floor. From the car seat in his hand, Abby made a gurgling noise.

"I know," he said to her. "I don't want to leave you here either."

Nevertheless, he climbed the stairs and found his way to the correct door. Violet opened it before he had a chance to knock. She was still wearing her pajamas, and her hair was unkempt.

"Good morning," she said, her voice hoarse. She sounded more than a little flustered. "You're early."

"Am I?" said John.

"Yeah," she said. She blinked several times, apparently trying to focus her eyes. "It's alright, though. Uh - coffee?"

"Please."

Violet invited him inside. The living area was a decent size - there were wood floors running throughout the space. The only piece of furniture Violet owned was a small blue love seat; this had been pushed aside to make room for a travel crib that Mary had brought by the night before. There was a hallway directly across from the front door which presumably led to the bathroom and bedroom.

"Cream and sugar?" Violet called from the small kitchen.

"No, just black," said John. He set Abby's car seat on the floor next to the crib and strode over to a large window. A row of easels lined the wall here. Only one had a painting: a boy and a girl running through a field of sunflowers.

"You did this?" said John.

"Yeah," Violet replied. "That's the one I'm working on now. I've moved the rest into my room."

"It's quite good," said John. "Are you selling any of them?"

"They're all for sale," said Violet. She handed him his coffee. "I can do requests, too."

"I might take you up on that," he said.

They drank their coffee in silence for a moment, and then they both started laughing at the same time.

"I'm sorry," said John. "I don't even know you!"

"And you're leaving your kid with me!" Violet snorted.

"Well, Sherlock trusts you," said John. He cleared his throat and took a long drink of his coffee. "I guess that's good enough."

Violet raised her eyebrows.

"Do you always listen to what Sherlock says?" she asked. Her tone wasn't reprimanding or incredulous. She seemed genuinely curious as to how John would respond. Her eyes simultaneously swept over John's frame. John was accustomed to this type of stare; it was the look Sherlock always gave someone when he was about to spiral off a list of deductions.

"Most of the time, yeah," John admitted. He felt an all-too familiar impulse to defend Sherlock. "I know he can seem a bit -"

"Asocial?" Violet offered.

"Yeah," said John, "but he's really alright."

"I'm sure."

Violet was still staring at John with an almost imperceptible frown, as if she were trying to solve a puzzle.

"He's the friendly neighborhood psychopath." John offered the joke up as an attempt to dissolve the tension in the room. He was beginning to feel very uncomfortable under Violet's gaze.

Violet frowned. It was quite obvious this time.

"No, not a psychopath," she said slowly. She sipped her coffee, no longer staring at John. She seemed to be lost in thought for a moment. "Sociopathic tendencies, sure. Most of that's self-imposed, I reckon. Likely he's been taught emotional vulnerability is a sign of weakness, and therefore uses his intelligence as a method to fend people off."

It was John's turn to stare.

"I'm an expert, remember," said Violet with a shrug.

"Right." John heaved a great sigh. "Why don't you like to admit how clever you are? I dunno... After knowing Sherlock so long, I guess I've gotten used to him showing off at every chance he gets."

"We're back to the use of intellect and logic to fend off emotional contact," said Violet plainly, then she added, "Mr. Holmes and I are very different people."

"Yeah," said John, "but I've met a lot of other really clever folk who are the same way. What is it that Sherlock says? Genius needs an audience, or something like that -"

"You put an awful lot of stock in what Sherlock thinks," Violet noted. "Shall we talk about why that is?"

John laughed humorlessly.

"I get it," he said. "Sorry, didn't mean to pry. You're not keen on talking about your personal life."

"Not really, no."

John downed the rest of his coffee in one gulp.

"Thanks for that," he said.

"Anytime," Violet replied.

There was an awkward silence.

"Well, I'd better go," he said, setting his empty mug down. He pointed to Abby. "She's been fed and changed already this morning. A bottle at around eleven would be good... And she usually naps around two... You have my number?"

"And Mary's, and the pediatrician, all on speed-dial," said Violet.

"Good," said John. He didn't move.

"Bye," said Violet after a while.

"Right," said John, and he left.

* * *

><p>"You're late," said Sherlock as John walked in the door. He didn't bother looking up from his pensive pose when John entered the room.<p>

"Okay," said John dismissively as he surveyed the scene. There was a man seated in one of the dining chairs. He was well dressed - a businessman of some sort, John assumed. He was rubbing his leg - an anxious tick, John assumed.

"John Watson," said John, reaching out to shake the man's hand.

"Harry Cubbitt." The man had a slightly nasal voice. "You'll pardon me if I don't shake your hand. The wife has come down with a terrible cold - I'd hate to spread it around."

"Right," said John, dropping his arm awkwardly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock smirk.

"The message, Mr. Cubbitt," said Sherlock, barely able to contain the glee in his voice.

"Yes," said Harry. He reached into his pocket and handed a little strip of paper to John. On it was a series of stick figures, each in different positions. John reached into his pocket to grab his notebook while he examined the paper closely. As he began to copy the figures down, he noticed a pattern.

"They're -" John began.

"-dancing," said Sherlock. He was beaming now. "But the interesting thing was Emily's - "

"Emma's," Harry corrected.

"Yes, whatever," said Sherlock, waving his hand impatiently. "The interesting thing was her reaction to finding these figures."

"She fainted," Harry explained. "I've never seen her that scared. And then they kept appearing, these messages. All over the house. One was carved into the mantel. That one we found sprayed on a brick wall outside the theater the other night. But Emma won't tell me what they mean. She tries to pretend they don't bother her."

"Fainting seems to be a pretty good indication otherwise," said John. He was scribbling furiously in his notebook.

"That's what I said," Harry went on. "She ignores me though. That's why I've come to you."

"Does she have any enemies?" John asked. "People that might want to harm her?"

"Or lovers who want to rekindle old flames," Sherlock muttered. John raised his eyebrows pointedly at him. Sherlock stared back, apparently realizing his statement fell under the category of _a bit not good_.

"What was that?" asked Harry.

"Nothing," said Sherlock quickly.

"No, I heard you," said Harry, "you said -"

"Don't mind him, he's being - whatever," said John hurriedly. He gave a flick of his hand to indicate Harry should continue. "Your wife... Do you know of anyone who might need to contact her? To warn her? Or who might be trying to threaten her?"

Harry sighed greatly.

"Emma has a very - shall we say - mysterious past," said Harry. "We've always agreed that I wouldn't ask questions."

"That must be difficult," said John. Sherlock glanced at him from the corner of his eye. John shifted in his seat.

"Very," agreed Harry. "But one makes sacrifices for love."

"I'll need to speak to her," said Sherlock immediately. He sprung to his feet swiftly and buttoned his jacket.

"No!" said Harry at once. "Out of the question! She can't know I've come to you. She'd be furious!"

"Worth the risk," said Sherlock with a shrug. "You'd better run along and prepare her. In the meantime, I need copies of every message left. You have a record of them all?"

"Yes, of course," said Harry quickly, "but please, there must be a way we can solve this without involving Emma."

"Harry, if there's someone threatening your wife it'll be easiest to get the information directly from her," said John. He was doing his best to sound calm and reassuring.

Harry looked as if he wanted to protest, but then he sighed.

"You're right, of course," he said. "I wish there was another way."

"The messages, if you please," said Sherlock, extending a hand.

Harry reached into his pocket and pulled out several more pieces of paper.

"I've written where they were found on the backs," he said.

"Thank you," said Sherlock. "Now get home and wait for our call."

He pushed Harry out the door and slammed it shut.

"Interesting man, don't you think?" he said mildly.

"I didn't notice anything unusual," said John as he glanced down at his notebook, "but I have a feeling you're going to -"

"He refused to shake your hand because 'the wife' had a cold. A rather odd term to use for someone you've vowed to spend your entire life with, don't you think? You're the expert on this sort of thing now, I suppose."

"Sometimes things like that just slip," said John. He found himself bristling at Sherlock's last comment, which was apparently harmless.

"His wife isn't the one who's been receiving the messages," said Sherlock. John mentally filled in the_ 'obvious_.'

"What?"

"Emma is not Mrs. Cubbitt." Sherlock looked impatient now.

"He's having an affair?" said John slowly.

"Yes, of course," said Sherlock. "Shirt's been carefully folded. He goes away regularly on 'business trips.' He's also recently changed his cologne - rather unusual for a man who's been married for ten years. And his girlfriend has a cat, which he's allergic to. He kept rubbing his leg - it was itching him, and the trouser was covered in cat hair."

"That would explain why he wouldn't want us to talk to his wife," said John thoughtfully. "Maybe she's involved?"

"Mrs. Cubbitt is a stay-at-home mother. It's highly unlikely she's versed in ciphertext."

"You've already broken the code?"

"I have an idea," said Sherlock. "Need to consult an expert though."

* * *

><p>"These are all the messages?" Mary asked, laying the strips of paper out on her desk. She kept glancing anxiously at John, who was doing his best not to scowl as he watched her skim over the lines of code.<p>

"All the ones Mr. Cubbitt came across, yes," said Sherlock. "There could be more that Emma received directly."

"It seems fairly simple," said Mary with another glance at John. "Every figure stands for a character in the alphabet..."

"That's it?" said Sherlock. He seemed surprised.

"Yes, of course," said Mary. "You're not dealing with a very high-class operation here. A low-level agent could break this in under a minute."

"Common criminals then," John suggested. It was the first time he'd spoken since they arrived at the surgery. "A drug ring maybe?"

"No, even they'd be more sophisticated than this," said Mary. "This looks like petty fraud or embezzlement to me."

"Shame," said Sherlock, visibly deflating. "I was hoping for something much more interesting."

"Although, hang on," said Mary suddenly. "Why would a low-level operation be ordering a hit on this woman? Here, have a look."

She had transcribed a few of the messages already.

"'EMMA PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD,'" John read over her shoulder.

"'HELL FOLLOWS WITH HIM,'" said Mary.

Sherlock's phone suddenly rang. He stepped outside to answer the call.

"How did you break that?" John asked despite himself. He was curious, though this meeting was a stark reminder of how he and Mary had not been on the best of terms over the past year.

"Basic frequency analysis," said Mary with a shrug. "There's statistics on how often certain characters appear in the English language. The letter 'E' is the most common at twelve percent. You compare that with how often characters appear in the cipher -"

"-and you can guess what each symbol stands for," said John. He smirked. "That's pretty smart."

"Simple, like I said," Mary contradicted. She frowned. "I'm surprised Sherlock didn't see that right away."

"He hasn't worked in a while," said John. "Maybe he's getting rusty."

"Maybe," said Mary quietly. "Or maybe he's desperate for something really big to happen." She lowered her voice even more. "Something tells me he'd hoped this message was from Moriarty."

John pondered her words for a moment. Before he could say anything in response, Sherlock burst through the door. He was grinning from ear to ear.

"You'll be pleased to know," he said, "that the case just got interesting again."

"How's that?" said John.

"Lestrade just called," said Sherlock. "Harry Cubbitt's been murdered. The Game is back on!"


	3. Chapter 3

**Edited: 5/3/2014**

* * *

><p>Lestrade had texted Sherlock an address that was a half-hours drive north of London's central hub. John had given Mary a quick peck on the cheek before they'd dashed out of the clinic. He and Sherlock now sat side-by-side in John's car; Sherlock had been gazing out the window for about ten minutes, his eyes darting in every direction. John, figuring the detective was storing away details into his infamous Mind Palace, contented himself with the silence.<p>

Sherlock sighed, breaking said silence.

"If the message was a hit on Emma, why would they go after Cubbitt?"

John's stomach lurched as a frightening possibility entered the foreground of his mind.

"He did visit us this morning," John pointed out. "Whoever was threatening Emma - maybe they knew he'd gone for our help."

Sherlock frowned at that.

"But let's wait until we've seen what Greg found," said John reassuringly. "No need to start feeling guilty over nothing."

"I'm not feeling guilty," said Sherlock quickly. "Why would I feel guilty?"

John rolled his eyes.

"No reason at all," he quipped. "Man comes to you for help and then winds up dead not two hours later - no reason you should possibly feel -"

"It's not as if I pointed a gun to him, is it?" said Sherlock. His tone indicated he was only slightly annoyed. Mostly he sounded confused. "He came to us of his own free will. It's not my fault if someone took offense to that."

John wanted to point out that Sherlock had very little experience when it came to feeling responsible for someone's sudden death, but stopped himself at the last minute. They hadn't talked about "the Fall" except as a passing joke for some time. John had forgiven Sherlock, certainly, but he couldn't deny that some part of himself still resented Sherlock.

The tense silence was broken when Sherlock decided to abruptly change the subject.

"Back there," he began, "with Mary - you seemed... on edge."

"Yes," said John. He frowned. "Why?"

"Nothing," said Sherlock. "It's just - all's not well?"

"Sherlock - what are you doing?"

"Making small talk... or something. Isn't that how normal people pass the time?"

"We're normal now?"

They couldn't help themselves, either of them. Both John and Sherlock laughed.

"I really am asking, you know," said Sherlock through a chuckle. "About you and Mary."

John's own laughter faded away. He felt his jaw begin to clench.

"We haven't really spoken about any of it since Christmas," he said. "There was that whole business with you and Magnussen, then Moriarty, then Abby... and, well, parenthood shuts down communication skills in the best marriages."

"Ah," said Sherlock. It was a noncommittal exclamation. He was trying to empathize, John could tell, but it was obvious Sherlock didn't really understand.

"That's probably why she _really _wanted to hire Violet," said John, "so that we could have more time to talk..."

"Makes sense," said Sherlock.

"Not that I haven't missed this," said John quickly. "Going on cases. We should still do loads more of this."

"Of course."

Their conversation was dropped, however, when John rounded the next corner. It wasn't difficult to spot the correct house: emergency vehicles blocked most of the driveway of a a stately-looking country home. Police tape partitioned off the front porch. A thick canopy of trees could be seen beyond the edge of the roof.

Lestrade greeted them as they stepped out of the car.

"It's been awhile since I've seen you two clowns," he said. "How's the baby?"

"Growing fast," said John cordially.

"Time sure has flown, eh? We ought to grab a pint sometime and catch up."

"Yeah, definitely," said John. He could do _that _again, too. "So what happened here?"

"That's what we wanted to ask you," said Lestrade. "Harry Cubbitt had your number in his pocket. What did he got to you for?"

"His girlfriend's been receiving threatening messages," John told him. He pulled out his notebook to show the transcriptions.

"These were for Mrs. Cubbitt?" Lestrade asked, examining the messages.

"No, some woman named Emma. Apparently Harry was seeing her on the side."

Lestrade frowned.

"Emma Foster?"

"I never learned her last name," said John. "Why?"

"This is her place," said Lestrade. "She was shot, too. Still alive as far as I know. Paramedics took her to the hospital."

"Christ, how about that, Sherlock - Sherlock?"

Sherlock had vanished. Not a second later, Donovan appeared at the front door looking flustered.

"What is _he_ doing here?" Donovan demanded. "I told you - Murder-suicide. It makes perfect sense!"

"What, you think Emma did this?" said John.

"It would make sense," Lestrade conceded. "She could have found out he was married, killed him, and then turned the gun on herself."

"Exactly what I think," said Donovan smugly.

"But we're still letting Sherlock have a look," said Lestrade firmly.

* * *

><p>Inside, Sherlock was scouring the room. Harry Cubbitt's body lay face up on a lilac love seat; his eyes gazed vacantly at the ceiling. Between them, a single bullet hole from which a trail of blood oozed down the side of his face.<p>

"Where's the gun?" Sherlock demanded the moment John, Lestrade, and Donovan had entered the room.

"Anderson bagged it," Donovan snarled.

"Go get it from him," Lestrade ordered. "Go!" He said again when Donovan didn't move.

Donovan cast an indignant look at everyone in the room and then retreated.

"Theories?" asked Lestrade.

"Three," said Sherlock. He was moving around various points in the room, always in full view of the large bay window.

"John," he said suddenly. "Is there an exit wound on Mr. Cubbitt?"

John slipped a pair of gloves on and bent over the sofa to examine Harry's head.

"No," he said.

Sherlock stopped near the door of the room, facing Harry's body, behind which sunlight streamed through the open window.

"Shooter kills Mr. Cubbitt with a single bullet from here," said Sherlock. He walked over to a spot near the fireplace. A pool of blood surrounded the coal bucket. "And then Emma is shot here."

"Bullet was still in her head, too," said Lestrade. "It's a miracle she survived."

"That's strange," said John. He put up two fingers next to his temple, frowning. "Suicide's done at point blank range. That close you're guaranteed to have the bullet go all the way through, no matter what type of gun it is."

"Two bullets," Sherlock muttered.

"Here it is." Donovan had returned. She tossed an evidence bag at Sherlock. "Found in Miss Foster's hand."

Sherlock removed the gun from the bag with a gloved hand and opened the chamber.

"Two bullets missing," he said, a smile forming on his face.

"One for Harry, one for Emma," said John. Sherlock was clearly a step ahead of everyone, and John was scrambling to catch up.

"That gun's registered to Emma Foster," said Donovan. "I've already checked."

"And completely missed the most important piece of evidence, as usual," said Sherlock

"Can we skip the part where you belittle everybody's intelligence," said Lestrade. "What happened here?"

"Bullet hole in the windowsill," said Sherlock. He strode to the window and pointed. "Harry and Emma each have a bullet in their head, which accounts for the two bullets missing from the chamber."

"But then where did the bullet hole on the windowsill come from?"

"Emma stands here," said Sherlock, walking to a place in the center of the room. "She and Harry have an argument, then Emma sees someone come in through the window. She's startled, and she backs into this table, knocking the vase over."

The table was indeed off-center, and a broken vase had spilled its contents all over the ornate rug. Sherlock rushed to a drawer on the far side of the room One of the drawers was open.

"She grabs her gun and fires once at the attacker. She misses and hits the windowsill. The attacker fires once at Harry, killing him. Emma drops the gun out of shock and tries to run from the room, but the killer has the door blocked. She backs up towards the fireplace. Killer picks up her gun and fires another bullet from here." Sherlock was near the door still. "They then plant the gun in Emma's hand to insinuate suicide. They retreat back out the window -" Sherlock rushed there, "- yes! A footprint in the flowerbed!"

He hopped out the window, mindful of not landing on the shoe print.

"Standard issue combat boot," he declared as he crouched beside the flowers. "Could be a man's or a woman's."

"In the military, then?" Lestrade offered. He had poked his head out the window.

"Not necessarily," said Sherlock. "But they're definitely trained. Two direct shots under that kind of distress. They know how to use a gun."

"You know what I don't understand," called John from inside the room. "Why would the killer go for Harry first? Emma was the one pointing the gun at him."

"Could be a number of reasons," Sherlock replied. "Emma obviously wasn't a good shot, therefore not a threat. The killer takes out the stronger of the two first... Or the killer might've come there for Harry and Emma happened to be in the way."

"Emma was the one receiving death threats," said John.

"Third option," said Sherlock, "the killer knew Emma and didn't want her dead."

"Usually when you shoot someone in the head, it means you want to kill them," said Donovan grumpily.

"Who made the emergency call?" Sherlock asked, staring at Lestrade.

"Unregistered cell-phone," he said. "We assumed it was a neighbor."

"Closest neighbor is half a mile a way," said Sherlock, shaking his head. "They wouldn't have heard the shots. Even if they did, they would have dismissed them."

Sherlock turned around and stared off into the woods. Then he took off at a run for the trees.

"Damn it!" Lestrade hissed. He hurried to squeeze through the window. "Hold on!" he yelled after Sherlock. John rushed out the window after him. They pursued Sherlock several meters into the woods until Sherlock stopped near the trunk of a large oak tree. He bent down to pick something up.

"Half of a prepaid flip-phone," he said.

"So the killer calls for an ambulance, snaps the phone in half, and then chucks it into the woods so it can't be traced?" John panted.

"Seems that way," said Sherlock.

"Is this the same person who was sending Emma the messages?" Lestrade asked.

"That's the mystery, still," said Sherlock. "I need to get back to Baker Street. Find Emma's phone, address book, anything that would have contacts in it and send those to me."

"Of course, whatever you say, sir," said Lestrade sarcastically as Sherlock brushed past him. "What are you going to do in the meantime?"

"Find out who's been sending Emma those messages," Sherlock called over his shoulder.

* * *

><p>Back at Baker Street a few hours later, Sherlock was poised in his chair with his eyes closed and his hands pressed together in front of his mouth. Mary, who had picked up Abby from Violet's flat and rejoined the boys with the copies of the Dancing Men messages, was working to transcribe the remainders. John was looking up their locations on the computer and plotting them on a map.<p>

"I can't make any sense of these," he said angrily. "There's no pattern to where they appear. Emma's house, the National Theater, vet's office... They're just places that normal people go."

"It's obvious then that the person leaving the messages knew Emma well," said Sherlock, sounding bored. "They knew her routines, her favorite places to visit."

"I'm not getting anywhere with these transcriptions, either," said Mary. "They're threats, that's it. A few of them are taken from the bible, I'm pretty sure."

"Are they all quotations?" Sherlock asked, opening his eyes.

"Except the first one we cracked," said Mary.

"EMMA PREPARE TO MEET THY GOD," Sherlock muttered.

"Right, but the rest I'm sure I've heard before."

"HELL FOLLOWS WITH HIM," said John, reading one of the messages.

"Revelation 6," said Sherlock. "Read more of them to me."

"THE UNRIGHTEOUS SHALL NOT INHERIT THE KINGDOM OF GOD."

"Corinthians, 6:9."

"THE LUSTS OF YOUR FATHER YE WILL DO."

"John, 8:44."

"THE LAKE WHICH BURNETH WITH FIRE AND BRIMSTONE: WHICH IS SECOND DEATH."

"Revelation 21:8."

"That's the last one," said Mary.

Sherlock frowned.

"The last three... The full excerpts all have something to do with adultery."

"Someone who knew Emma and Harry were having an affair, then?" John offered.

"Very possible," said Sherlock.

"Which makes me ask again: D'you think Mrs. Cubbitt might be involved?"

"I suppose it might be worthwhile to interview her," Sherlock conceded. Then he sighed. "I'm missing something. That's too obvious."

"Maybe not," said John. "You said it was unlikely that Mrs. Cubbitt was trained in combat, right? Well, the person who shot Harry and Emma -"

"- was a trained assassin, yes," said Sherlock. "From there, the logical conclusion is that Mrs. Cubbitt found out about the affair and hired someone to do in her husband and his mistress. Perfectly simple. Perfectly boring."

John and Mary exchanged glances.

"Sherlock, maybe it really is that simple," said John, being as gentle as he could.

"You've been under a lot of pressure to find something on Moriarty," said Mary.

"And the two of you believe I'm trying to somehow connect this case to him," said Sherlock, an edge creeping into his voice. "It might interest you to know that I've never thought this case was connected with Moriarty. It's not the sort of thing he would involve himself in at all."

"Why _did _you take it then?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't answer. The doorbell downstairs rang.

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson called. "It's the Detective Inspector!"

A few seconds later Lestrade appeared carrying a small plastic bag.

"Emma Foster's cell phone, phone records, and her address book," he said. "Our people have had a good look through them, so they're yours now."

Sherlock took the bag from Lestrade and began examining the objects inside.

"We informed Harry's wife, too," said Lestrade to the room in general. "She seemed pretty heartbroken. Also claims she didn't know about the affair."

"She might still be involved," said John. "She could have hired someone to kill the pair of them. That's our top theory at the moment."

"But he's not satisfied with it, is he?" said Lestrade as if Sherlock wasn't in the room. John shook his head. "We'll keep it in mind. Let us know if you figure anything else out."

"I'd like to interview Mrs. Cubbitt myself," said Sherlock. He was flipping through the address book now.

Lestrade nodded, and then took his leave.

"Anything useful?" John asked.

"It's a bit odd that a young woman with a cellphone would keep her contacts on paper as well," said Sherlock. He picked up the phone records next. "Interesting," he muttered.

"What?" John and Mary asked together.

"Most frequent incoming and outgoing calls are not numbers that are in the book. And I'll bet -" he began flipping through the phone, "-none of the contacts in the phone itself match the book either."

"She was keeping them separate, then," said John.

"Cell phone is more likely to get stolen," said Sherlock. "She wanted to make sure that she couldn't be connected to the people she kept in the book in the event of her phone disappearing. I'd bet that the person sending her those messages and probably the person who killed Harry is in the book, not the phone."

"So what do we do next?" John asked.

"I'm going to send a little message of my own to everyone in that book," said Sherlock. "Mary, can I see the code?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: **I'm not usually one for Author's Notes, but I would like to quickly thank everyone who's subscribed to this story, and send a thank you to LadyDunla for catching my rather silly spelling mistake (Lestrade, not Lystrade). Changes have been made. Moving forward now, and I hope everyone enjoys!

**Edited: 5/4/14**

* * *

><p>The next several days passed by uneventfully. Sherlock had used the code to send messages to the contacts in Emma Foster's address book. He'd hoped that the person who'd shot her would respond, but the days went on with no sign of contact. John meanwhile had called Mrs. Cubbitt several times to ask her for an interview. She had yet to return any of the messages. Lestrade kept them updated regularly on Emma's condition; she had survived surgery and was being kept in a medically induced coma. The doctors were unsure of what her brain function would be if she ever woke up, so there was little hope of being able to get information from her.<p>

Though there were no new breaks in the case, John kept to his new routine of dropping Abby off with Violet in the mornings. He spent his days at Baker Street with Sherlock; the two poured over the details of the case until they had no loose end to investigate. Then Sherlock would pace, play his violin, or lay sprawled on the couch with his hands steepled under his chin while John made tea and sifted through the channels on the tele. The familiar routine was soothing to John. If he tried, he could pretend to erase the memories of the last three years from his mind and pretend that everything had been a ridiculous dream. And then Mary would come to meet him in the evenings., having retrieved Abby from Violet's flat. Sometimes they would order take-in together and crowd around the dingy Baker Street dining table. Most of the time they would leave straight away. Always John felt like a child himself being picked up at the end of a play date.

"We should offer her a raise," Mary remarked one evening after she and John had left Baker Street.

"Hmm?" said John. His mind had been wandering.

"Violet," said Mary. "She's incredible. Abby loves her - she started crying the instant we walked out the door."

"She's hasn't been working for us more than a week!" John cried, though his complaint lacked any seriousness. He had grown to like Violet, too. They'd chat for ages when John dropped by her flat, and she'd turned out to be quite charming. In many ways, she reminded him of Sherlock with her cold, calculating demeanor. Underneath all that was a layer of warmth and compassion. Violet let this layer show quite a bit more than the detective did.

"Dinner, then," said Mary, "with us and Sherlock. She's becoming part of the family now."

So that Saturday night they invited Sherlock and Violet to their house for a small party. The evening was rather enjoyable for everyone, though Sherlock and Violet kept their distance from one another. Violet still didn't seem to trust him, and Sherlock was lost in his own thoughts anyway. They had finished dinner and were sitting in the Watsons' cozy living room sharing a bottle of wine and nibbling on desert. Violet sat on the floor playing with Abby who was squealing happily.

"She likes you," Mary observed.

"We have a lot of quality girl talk when Mom and Dad aren't around," Violet joked. "Ow!"

Abby had grabbed a lock of Violet's hair and yanked hard.

"I think she'll probably start crawling pretty soon. She can already lift her head, look!"

Sherlock was sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, fiddling with the buttons on his phone. His glass of wine lay forgotten on a side table.

"Any news?" John asked.

"They're going to try to wake Emma up tomorrow," he said mildly.

"Who's Emma?" Violet asked. It was the first time she had spoken directly to Sherlock all evening. He seemed surprised - he turned his head to stare at her.

"It's about the case they're working on," Mary explained. "Emma's the woman who was shot."

"The rich woman who lived in the country?" Violet frowned. "She's been all over the news; the police think her lover's wife was behind it?"

"How'd they get a hold of that theory?" John wondered.

"Anderson, or Donovan most likely," Sherlock mused. "Neither of them can resist being the center of attention."

"Sounds like someone we know," said John pointedly.

Violet snorted.

"Very funny," said Sherlock dryly.

"Who do you think did it?" Violet asked.

"We don't have enough information yet," said John. "We're working on a couple of leads, but none of them have come through."

"They're saying she was tied up with some pretty nasty people," said Violet. "High ranking criminals. Big mob bosses, that kind of thing."

Sherlock, John, and Mary all looked taken aback.

"Really?" said John. "I thought we decided it was a petty criminal ring. The cipher was so basic -"

"I mean, that's the tabloids for you," said Violet with a shrug. "They're always blowing things way out of proportion. But then again, all rumors have some basis in fact."

"What are they saying?" Sherlock asked. He was leaning forward in his chair and fixing Violet with an intense stare.

"She used to date this guy a while ago who worked for a really nasty boss... I'm trying to remember the name... It started with an 'M.' Martin? Mayfield? No... Marshall..."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock offered. He sounded a little bit hopeful.

"No," said Violet. "It sounded German or Danish..."

"Magnussen," said Sherlock certainly.

"Yeah, that was it," said Violet.

A very stiff silence fell over the room. Even Abby grew quiet. John fixed his gaze on the crackling fireplace, fastidiously not looking at either Sherlock or Mary. Violet looked around at everyone.

"What?" she asked. "Who is he? Who's Magnussen?"

"Was," Sherlock corrected. "He's dead now."

At that moment, Sherlock and John's phones went off. Both men checked their messages and then glanced at one another.

"Mycroft?" John asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Who's that?" Violet asked.

"Sherlock's brother," Mary explained hurriedly. "What does he want?"

"Wants to meet us back at Baker Street," said John as he and Sherlock rose to collect their coats.

* * *

><p>Mycroft was waiting for them in the living room when Sherlock and John arrived, perched in John's chair with his brolly twirling between the fingers of his left hand. John marveled at the man's ability to suck the color from a room simply by inhabiting it. The fireplace had been lit, but instead of casting off it's usual warm glow the flames filled the room with an eerie flickering aura that turned everything a sickly yellow. Mrs. Hudson could be heard bustling around the kitchen, making tea.<p>

"Oh boys!" she chirped as they hung up their coats. "I hope you don't mind, I let him right up. If you just give me a moment, the tea'll be ready."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said John.

"Hello, brother dear," said Sherlock coldly, regarding Mycroft with a sneer.

"You've kept yourself busy," Mycroft remarked casually. He still hadn't glanced at either Sherlock or John. "This 'Dancing Men' case. Very intriguing, I'm sure."

"Quite," said Sherlock. "Though we've hit a bit of a road bump. Can't seem to get anyone to respond to our messages. I wonder why that is."

"A very tragic circumstance it was," said Mycroft loftily. "People must be reluctant to talk about it."

"I'm sure."

"By now I trust you've discovered the interesting thing about this case."

"Right before you called, actually."

"It took you that long?" Mycroft clicked his tongue. "Tut, tut. You've been idle for too long, brother mine, your intellect is declining."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Let me guess what happens next, _brother mine,_" said Sherlock, malice coloring his voice darkly,"you stop me from investigating this case, I defy you and catch the culprit, and you run back to Scotland Yard to complain about what an unruly nuisance your little brother is."

"Let me remind _you_, Sherlock, you are only in this country because I convinced Scotland Yard you could stop Moriarty," said Mycroft coldly. "You have yet to prove Moriarty is even alive. It will be difficult for me to explain that you instead choose to poke around for bones in Magnussen's closet eight months after you shoot him in the head."

"That's your problem," said Sherlock.

"If it's any help," said John, attempting to diffuse the tension, "we didn't know that this ran back to Magnussen when we took the case."

"I have no doubt _you_ didn't, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft, "but you'll have a time convincing me that my brother didn't think the same."

John looked to Sherlock.

"What's he talking about?"

Sherlock stared Mycroft down.

"Magnussen had a painting in his foyer," he said, "dancing stick figures. Not the same as the ones in the messages, but similar. Very similar."

"Jesus, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "Didn't you think that was something I ought to know?"

"I didn't realize how relevant it was at the time," said Sherlock. He kept his eyes on Mycroft.

"It's relevant now," said Mycroft, "and that's the whole problem." He sighed and planted his brolly firmly on the floor before using it to stand up. "You're right, brother, I've given up on trying to tell you what to do. But I can tell you that what you're doing is dangerous." He refastened his blazer. "Until next time, then," he said, and he left. John rounded on Sherlock.

"For future reference," said John once he was sure Mycroft was out of earshot, "It's always relevant when you find a case that's connected with the lunatic you shot in the face."

"Noted," said Sherlock, though his tone indicated he wasn't really paying attention. His eyes were darting all around the room. He appeared to be looking for something.

"Where are we now?" asked John. "What do we do?"

"Scotland Yard knows we've been investigating this case," said Sherlock.

"Well, yeah, Lestrade called us in-"

"But word got all the way up to Mycroft." He spun around finally to face John. "How long were we at your house?" he demanded.

John checked his watch.

"Dinner started at six... So three hours."

"Plenty of time for someone to break in and leave us a message."

"Hang on," said John as Sherlock scrambled around the room. "You think the killer works for Scotland Yard?"

"If they've been following the news, they'll know that Emma's still in a coma," said Sherlock, tossing papers all around, "not to be woken up until tomorrow. Despite that, they receive a message written in a code that only they and Emma understand. So they know that the note came from someone else. Someone who's broken the cipher. And after tonight, we know that they worked for Magnussen."

"Double agent, you think then?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Despite what my brother may have said last year, he wouldn't have let Magnussen go unchecked. All those dangerous secrets rolling around in his head... He would have wanted someone keeping tabs on him. Our killer was secretly working for the government."

"Nobody could hide anything from Magnussen," John protested. "Mary couldn't, and she was an expert."

"True. You'd have to be very deep undercover," Sherlock conceded. "So deep that the smallest crack in your wall could bring the whole thing down."

"Emma."

"Yes. He would have to provide a pressure point to Magnussen. Girlfriend is a rather easy one to procure."

"Just like you and your drug habit?"

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Based enough in the truth to be believable. Emma was someone of importance to him even if they weren't actually together. Would also explain why he would want to keep her alive. The rest of the disguise would have to be very elaborate. And run deep enough still that your real boss couldn't know your identity."

"So what are we looking for?"

"Something subtle. Discreet. They wouldn't be able to let Mycroft see. And if they work at the same place as him, they'd know he was coming to visit us."

Sherlock turned to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was still scrambling around.

"Mrs. Hudson, did you let anyone in while we were out? Besides Mycroft."

Mrs. Hudson frowned in concentration as she poured the kettle into three large mugs.

"Someone came to look at the basement flat. Strange man, walked in, touched the mantel, and then left."

John and Sherlock exchanged looks.

"Could you let us in, please?" said Sherlock.

"Of course, dear." She reached into her pocket for her keys.

"You really should think about taking that place off the market," John told her as they walked down the stairs.

"Prime piece of real estate like this!" Mrs. Hudson cried indignantly. "I'd be mad! Even with the mold -"

"Criminals seem to love leaving things there for us is all I'm saying. First Moriarty with the shoes, now this -"

"A convenient messaging system, you have to admit," Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"There you are," said Mrs. Hudson as the door to 221c swung open. "Like I said, he only walked in, touched the fireplace, and left. Said it wasn't quite right. Didn't even ask to see the kitchen. Its very nice - I've had all new floors put in -"

"Could we get some of that tea, Mrs. Hudson?"

"I'm not your housekeeper, I keep telling you," she replied, but nevertheless hurried upstairs.

Sherlock strode to the fireplace and looked under the mantel. He pulled something off from underneath and resurfaced with a small piece of paper in his hand.

"Another cipher," he declared. "Give me a moment... 'YOU MUST NOT EAT FROM THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE, FOR YOU WILL CERTAINLY DIE.'"

"That's Genesis, right?" said John.

"To us, it's a warning. Keep investigating, and we'll be in trouble."

John nodded.

"So how do we find him?"

Sherlock grinned.

"I still have a few of Lestrade's old key cards upstairs."


	5. Chapter 5

"I cannot believe we're doing this."

Sherlock grinned.

"Come on, now John - we've broken in places before."

"This is our first time trying the heart of the British government."

"Can you believe its taken us almost four years?"

John wouldn't admit it, but he was very excited.

Lestrade's card got them through the entrance to the building easily, but they would have to be careful they were not seen by any security personnel who might recognize them.

"What about cameras?" John had asked on the way there.

"We'll be in and out before they have time to identify us."

To do that, they'd have to know exactly where they were going, and what they were looking for. John was completely out of the loop on that point. Sherlock seemed confident, so John didn't bother asking any more questions. Sherlock led them through narrow hallways and corridors, avoiding guards with such ease that John began to get the impression that Sherlock had done this before, probably several times. Finally, they arrived at a room labeled "Records & Evidence."

"We need to find a list of Magnussen's employees," said Sherlock, swiping the card.

John started.

"Couldn't we have Googled that?" he whispered.

"The people working closest to Magnussen, close enough to work in his house, wouldn't be listed on public record," said Sherlock as they stepped into the dingy, crowded room. "We're looking for people who had contact with Magnussen on a daily basis. Security personnel."

Sherlock stepped past three aisles and turned to the right. He knew exactly where he was going. He'd definitely been here before. John followed and found Sherlock stopped before a box labeled "Magnussen/Holmes."

"What's that?" John asked.

"Evidence," said Sherlock calmly, "for my trial."

"Your -?"

"Trial, yes. Mycroft made a deal with the prosecution - they wouldn't have me arrested if I did Scotland Yard a favor. But they keep the investigation open, just in case."

"What favor?"

"Find Moriarty for them - weren't you paying attention to my brother earlier? Help me with this box -"

Together they lifted the box off its shelf and set it on the floor. John continued to protest.

"Sherlock, you can't look at evidence from your own case. That's breaking all sorts of laws, not counting the ones we've already -"

"John, I've already seen everything in this box," said Sherlock steadily. "If i were tried today, I would plead guilty. Nobody has any doubt that I killed Magnussen. I think the government prefers to use that as leverage against me as long as they can. That said," he added, his voice dropping even further, "if this makes you uncomfortable in any way, you can leave."

He crouched down beside the box, keeping his eyes fixed on John all the while. Then he stilled. John realized after a moment that Sherlock was waiting for him to make his move. John steeled his resolve, and then nodded once.

Sherlock opened the box and began sifting through the contents. The first thing he picked up was a familiar object - John's old gun, which had been confiscated for the investigation. John swallowed. Sherlock's eyes flickered up to him briefly once again before he set the gun to the side. and set this aside. After a few moments, Sherlock pulled out a crowded file folder and said, "Here it is."

He set the folder on the floor. Inside was a long list of names and several headshots of men and women with severe looking expressions.

"How do we know who we're looking for?" John asked.

"I sent the coded message to fifteen people," said Sherlock. "We can eliminate the women, thanks to Mrs. Hudson, which leaves us with five. We narrow that down to anyone who we find on this list, which leaves us with -" he flicked though the pages, reading very quickly, "one. No, two."

From the folder he withdrew two pictures.

"Marcus Fletcher and Al Slater."

"One of them's the killer?" said John, examining the pictures. "How do we tell which one?"

"That's the next question," said Sherlock. He began tossing the contents back into the box. "Now quickly, put them back. We need to get out of here before -"

The light flickered on. John and Sherlock froze. Sherlock still had his hand on the lid of the box. He locked eyes with John. Neither of them dared to breathe. Then a voice called out.

"Holmes and Watson, I know you're in here."

It was Lestrade. John felt his breath rush out in a sigh of relief. Sherlock did the same. Lestrade's footsteps approached their aisle, and then he appeared around the corner. His hand was clasped over his eyes, blocking his sight.

"What're you -?" John began.

"If I can't see the pair of you in here, I can't be asked to testify," he said. "I will say this: you're lucky it was me who ID'd you on the security footage. You see, I've had all the bar code numbers on my old key cards wired so that I'm notified as soon as one of them is used."

"You learn fast," Sherlock commented.

"I'll take that as a thank you," said Lestrade. "Now put that box back and follow me out, slowly."

They did as they were asked and walked from the room with Lestrade. Once the door had been closed behind them, he removed his hand from his eyes.

"I didn't see anything," he said sternly, "but if I had, I'd ask the pair of you what the hell you were doing in there."

"Looking for names," said Sherlock.

"And you didn't think it might be easier to just ask me?"

John gave Sherlock a monstrous look. Sherlock shrugged.

"That's the boring way," he said.

"Also the completely legal way," said Lestrade. John clenched his jaw. "Anyway, I hope this is about the Emma Foster case. If it is, I might decide not to report the pair of you."

"It is," said John quickly.

"We've narrowed it down to two suspects," said Sherlock. "We need to know if either of them work for Scotland Yard."

"I thought you said they'd be too far undercover," said John.

"They wouldn't be listed as agents or detectives, they'd be here as custodial or cafeteria staff. Nobody would look twice at them."

"My office, then," said Lestrade. "Before anybody sees us -"

Lestrade led them up several floors. The path was familiar to John; he'd been to Lestrade's office many times before. It was quiet this evening; only a few stray officers worked away quietly at their desks. Lestrade's office was much the same as it had always been, though John noticed the pictures of Lestrade's wife had been replaced with photos of a pretty young woman.

"You've got a girlfriend?" John commented.

"Yeah, about six months now," said Lestrade. "Oh, don't give me that look," he said at John's raised eyebrows. "Work isn't everything, you know."

Sherlock snorted. He looked as if he was fighting back the urge to explode.

"Go on," said Lestrade. "Get it out of your system."

"Divorced three times, left her last husband for a younger man," he said, and then he let out a long sigh. "Oh, this being nice thing is really quite difficult sometimes, I don't know how you lot do it."

"Yeah, it helps to not be socially impaired sometimes," said Lestrade. "Thank you for your analysis. Nina and I will be quite fine, thanks."

"Did you completely miss everything I just said?"

"I didn't," said Lestrade, "you haven't told me anything I don't already know. See, that's what people do in relationships. They tell each other things about themselves, open up."

"How odd. John and Mary certainly didn't do that."

"Can we just get back to the case, please?" said John quickly.

"Right," said Lestrade. "Give me the names."

"Fletcher and Slater," said Sherlock. Lestrade typed these into his computer.

"What if those are aliases?" said John. "Would they have told Emma their real names if they were undercover?"

"Magnussen was clever, he would have seen through a fake identity," said Sherlock. "Our killer would want to arouse as little suspicion as possible. Fake name would be a quick way to get noticed."

"Fletcher was found dead at Magnussen's office last year," said Lestrade. "That was the same night Sherlock was shot."

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance. They knew exactly who had taken Fletcher out.

"Here we are," said Lestrade. "Albert Slater. Works as a janitor, night shift."

"Is he working tonight?" asked Sherlock.

"No," said Lestrade. "Weeknights." He frowned suddenly. "That's odd."

"What?"

"He used his card to get into the building tonight... About a half an hour -"

"Get down!" John yelled suddenly. He, Sherlock, and Lestrade hit the floor a moment before a shot rang out. Glass shattered across the office, hitting the back of their heads as they lay on the floor. Lestrade and John were on their feet a moment later, their own guns drawn. They heard hurried footsteps and the sound of jangling keys.- John ran from the office and looked around. He heard a door slam at the end of a corridor and bolted in that direction, past officers who had drawn their own weapons and were looking around frantically.

"John!" he heard Sherlock and Lestrade call in unison, but he kept running. He made it to the stairwell where he could hear the man racing down the stairs. John pursued the man to the bottom and out a door to a back alley. From there, he could not tell which way the man had gone. John bent over, panting hard. Sherlock and Lestrade appeared at the door behind him a moment later.

"Oi!" said Lestrade angrily. "Why don't you let the room full of _armed _officers take care of the chasing next time, eh?"

"John's gotten a bit jumpy since the baby was born," said Sherlock. He sounded mildly amused; John could see him fighting a smile. "How did you know he was there?"

"Saw his - his reflection, in the glass," John panted.

"Which way did he go?" Lestrade asked.

"Didn't see."

"Was it Slater?"

John nodded.

"He was wearing a janitor's uniform. Had keys. Didn't see his face, but I'm sure it was him."

"He knows we're on to him," said Sherlock. "We're going to have to be careful now."

"I'll have his key card flagged," said Lestrade. He'd pulled out his phone and begun dialing a number. "If he tries to come back, we'll know about it. And I'll get his face out to all the patrols."

"We're talking about a man who was able to hide from Magnussen for years. He can disappear anytime he wants. Except -" Sherlock froze, and his eyes went very wide. "Where's Emma Foster being kept?"

"St. Bart's," said Lestrade as he pressed the phone to his ear. "You think he'll go after her again?"

"She's the only person who could see through his disguises. The only person who knows enough about him to be able to find him wherever he tries to go. And the doctors are going to try to wake her up in -" Sherlock checked his watch, "-two hours."

"I'll get squad cars over there now," said Lestrade.

"Give John and I twenty minutes head start," said Sherlock. "I need to check something first."

* * *

><p>It was a short, familiar drive from NSY to St. Bart's where Emma was being kept. Sherlock was tight-lipped about what the plan was; he spent the entire ride typing away on his phone. John didn't have the presence of mind to ask any questions. He was still reeling from the encounter with Slater. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and remembered he'd forgotten to text Mary. Now that he thought about it, he realized he'd missed several messages from her by now.<p>

Of course, all thoughts of Mary vanished as soon as he pulled in to park next to the hospital. Sherlock flung himself from the car before John had even put it in park. John swore loudly and scrambled to catch up to the detective.

Just inside the lobby John found Sherlock already in the middle of a heated conversation with a surly-looking nurse with curly hair.

"Foster," Sherlock was barking at her. "Emma Foster."

"Are you friend or family, sir?" said the nurse in an agitated voice.

"What?" said Sherlock incredulously.

"Friend or family, sir?" the nurse repeated.

Sherlock shifted impatiently. "Neither," he said."

"I can't let you in, sir. It's not visiting hours right now -"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock cried as he slammed his hand onto the counter. "A woman's life depends on it!"

"I'm sorry, sir," said the nurse. She didn't sound sorry at all. "I can't let you in if you don't know the patient."

"Sherlock," John interjected, "maybe we should wait for -"

"Sherlock? John?"

From around the corner came a familiar mousy-haired figure. Molly Hooper walked towards the desk, her eyes darting back and forth between Sherlock and the nurse.

"It's alright, Connie," she said, "I know them."

"Bye," said Sherlock smugly. The nurse retreated, giving the three of them dirty looks and mumbling something about needing her dinner break.

"What're you doing here this time of night?" Molly asked. Then her eyes seemed to widen hopefully. "Are you on a case?"

"Yes, we're looking for Emma Foster's room," said Sherlock impatiently. "Can you take us to her?"

"Is that the woman who was shot in the head?" said Molly. "The one in the coma?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

Molly shuffled her feet anxiously.

"She died about an hour ago. I just finished moving her. I'm so sorry -" she added at John's stunned look. "Was she a friend?"

"Excellent," said Sherlock. Both Molly and John were shocked to see him smiling. "Can you take us to her?"

"Um, sure," said Molly. "Yeah, okay... Did Lestrade send you?"

"Nope, but he'll be along to clear things before we're done." Sherlock grinned wider and put on his most polite tone. "The body, please, Molly Hooper."

"Yeah," said Molly, blushing. "You know the way -"

She led them down a familiar hall to the morgue. Only one corpse lay out on the examination table - a woman with strawberry blonde hair and a sweet looking face. The rest of her was covered with a sheet. A single bullet hole could be seen in her right temple.

"I haven't done the autopsy yet," said Molly, "it's pretty obvious what killed her, I'd say."

"Yes, wouldn't you agree Dr. Watson?" said Sherlock.

"Would you stop doing that?" John snapped.

"What?"

"The smiling," said John. "It's a bit creepy."

"Right," said Sherlock, forcing his grin into a frown. "Sorry. Now, do you mind examining the corpse, please?"

Molly offered John a pair of gloves, which he snapped on grudgingly. He stepped up to the examination table and turned the woman's head gently from side to side.

"Single entry point to the right temple... No exit wound. Consistent with what Lestrade told us at the crime scene last week."

"Is it?" said Sherlock. "Look harder."

John sighed, and examined the woman's head again. Then something caught his eye.

"Hang on," he said, bending down for a closer look. "There's -"

"Blood," said Sherlock. "If you tested it, you'd find it had been there only a couple of hours."

"But Emma's been in the hospital for nearly a week."

"Meaning her wound would have been regularly cleaned and bandaged. There shouldn't be any fresh blood on that wound."

"But there is," said John, "so that means -"

"This is not the body of Emma Foster," Sherlock finished.


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: **I sincerely apologize for the long update... alas, the life of a student leaves little free time. I appreciate everyone's reviews, and I hope you enjoy this chapter!

* * *

><p>"You knew there'd been a switch," Lestrade repeated angrily for what must have been the fourth time. He was pacing back and forth across the morgue floor, glaring at Sherlock who was seated calmly behind Molly's desk.<p>

"Yes, I've already told you -" Sherlock began.

"You knew there'd been a switch!"

"_Yes_. Doesn't anyone want to know _how _-"

"_You knew there'd been a switch!"_

"Alright!" John interjected. "Ladies, you're both pretty -"

"You let me waste time, energy, _patrols_ on what you knew would be a pointless -"

"Not pointless," said Sherlock. "I didn't _know_. I needed time to prove it."

"I'm still lost," Molly piped up. "That's Emma Foster. I checked -"

"Have the dental records come back yet?" Sherlock asked politely.

"No -"

"So we wait."

"How'd it happen?" John asked. "How'd the hospital miss something like that?"

"There was help from someone on the inside, I'm sure," said Sherlock. "You'll have to call the surgeon in for questioning -"

"Don't tell me how to do my bloody job!" Lestrade snapped.

"I've been doing it for years," said Sherlock with a shrug. "What's the difference now?"

Lestrade made a motion as if he were going to lunge at Sherlock. John pushed him back lightly.

"Let it go," he said, "you're only provoking him, you know that."

Sherlock was looking very smug indeed. He glanced at the door when Molly's assistant came back with the records. Molly thanked him and opened the folder.

"Not Emma Foster," she said. "They belong to - hang on -"

"Kim Foster," said Sherlock. "Emma's identical twin sister."

"How the bloody hell did you know that?" Lestrade barked.

"I looked Emma up in my free time," said Sherlock calmly. "Kim Foster, the woman on the table, has been in a coma for the last six years following a horrible car accident. She was declared brain dead, but the family refused to pull the plug. Two weeks ago, the hospital where she was being kept reported her missing."

"Why are we just finding out about this now?" asked John. "Emma's been all over the news, you'd think the papers would have mentioned something about that."

"She hasn't been in contact with her family for nearly a decade. As near as I can tell, she's been cut off from them for some time. I haven't been able to find out why..."

"I don't care about that right now," said Lestrade. "I want to know how Slater was able to pull this off."

Sherlock clasped his hands in front of his face, his brow furrowed. His eyes were darting in every direction as if he were reading an invisible screen.

"We've had it wrong from the start," he began slowly. "Slater and Foster have been working together from the beginning. I'm not sure how, or why..." He looked to John. "Did Mrs. Cubbitt ever get back to you?"

"No, why?"

"We need to speak with her immediately." He rounded on Molly and Lestrade. "Has the press gotten word that Emma isn't the dead patient?"

"It's between us, as far as I know," said Molly. She glanced at Lestrade, who sighed haughtily.

"Nobody outside this room has any idea," he confirmed.

"Keep it that way for now," said Sherlock.

"Why should I do that?"

Sherlock lightened his tone ever so slightly.

"I need to speak to Harry's wife. I have a feeling that word of Emma's death will loosen her tongue. Can you do this for me? Please."

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"My lips are sealed," he said. "But I expect to be kept in the loop completely from here on out, understand? No more secrets."

"Fine," said Sherlock. He was already halfway to the door. John started when he realized this and scurried to keep up.

"Where are we going then?" he asked, finding himself jogging to keep pace with Sherlock's long stride.

"Back to the flat," said Sherlock. "I need you to send another message to Mrs. Cubbitt. I expect she'll contact you as soon as she gets word of Emma's death."

"How do you figure that?" asked John. They were outside the hospital now, making their way to John's car.

"Guilt does strange things to people, I'm told."

Sherlock let himself in the passengers seat as soon as John clicked the unlock button. John's phone beeped before he could open his own door; he found when he took it out of his pocket several missed text messages from Mary, the last reading: "Try not to have too much fun. See you tomorrow sometime? Lots of love."

John kicked himself for not checking his phone earlier. He hastily replied: "Love you too. Kiss Abby for me. We're following a lead, be back in the morning... I hope."

"Aren't you going to ask?" said Sherlock as soon as John had climbed into the car.

"Ask what?"

"How they made the switch."

John started the car and backed out of the parking lot.

"I figured you would tell me anyway," he said.

"I would if I knew," said Sherlock. He seemed frustrated. "They'd have to make a convincing enough bullet wound that the first responders wouldn't be suspicious."

"Unless they were in on it, too," said John. "They could have hidden Kim's body in the ambulance and made the switch during transport."

Sherlock turned his head and stared at John.

"That's brilliant," he said.

"Really?" said John, his eyebrows raised.

"Yes, of course," said Sherlock. He then smugly added, "I've taught you well."

"You still haven't learned how to give a proper compliment."

"They pay of the surgeon, too, to turn the other way when she arrives at the hospital. Kim remains in the hospital until tonight -"

"When Slater realized we were on to him."

"Right. Then he sneaks into the hospital - or contacts Emma - and one of them shoots Kim, disposes of the evidence, and waits for her to be found dead by hospital staff."

"_Why_ though?" said John. "What's it all for?"

"We need to figure out how the two of them are connected," said Sherlock.

"They were in a relationship," said John.

"Yes, but how did they meet? How do they know each other?

"You think Mrs. Cubbitt can help us with that?"

"I think if we can figure out how Harry and Emma met, it'll shed light on how our two assassins came together."

"This is turning into the worst soap opera ever," John muttered.

Sherlock was, as usual, right. Word broke about Emma's 'death' first thing on the morning news. Not an hour later, Mrs. Cubbitt returned John's messages, asking for an address. While they waited for her to arrive, John called Mary and filled her in on everything that had happened the night before. He apologized over and over again for not answering her calls. She wasn't bothered in the least.

"I'm just happy to see you boys at work again," she told him.

"You really are a saint, you know that?" he said.

"I know."

"John, be amorous on your own time," Sherlock barked. The bell had just rung. "We've got work to do."

"Got to go," said John into the phone. "Love you, bye."

Mrs. Hudson escorted a very frail-looking woman up the stairs and over the threshold. Mrs. Cubbitt certainly had the look of someone who had just lost a husband. Her hair, which John assumed was usually very neat, stuck out everywhere from her bun. Dark circles had formed under her eyes - made more obvious by the fact that she was very pale.

"Mrs. Cubbitt," said Sherlock, extending his hand. "We are very sorry for your loss."

His tone was uncharacteristically sympathetic. John had to fight the urge to guffaw.

"Please," said Mrs. Cubbitt, "call me Helen."

John shook her hand and introduced himself as well, then they all three took their seats. There was a very long pause in which they all stared at one another.

"I believe you boys asked me to come here," said Mrs. Cubbitt finally.

"Right," said John, "Sorry. We just have a few questions -"

"How did you and Emma Foster meet?" Sherlock demanded suddenly.

"You've got to be kidding me," John muttered, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Cubbitt was flustered.

"I don't have any idea what you're -"

"You told the police you knew nothing of the affair," said Sherlock. "You're upset about your husband's death, I can see that. But your wedding ring is missing one of the stones and you haven't bothered to get it replaced. Clear sign you were unhappy in your marriage. You've suspected your husband was cheating on you for quite some time. You also contacted us immediately after you learned of Emma Foster's death, suggesting you knew her before the attack. People don't get sentimental when strangers die."

Mrs. Cubbitt's expression grew very cold.

"If you're suggesting I had anything to do with -"

"Oh, please," said Sherlock. "How many times do I have to go over this? You didn't attack your husband or Miss Foster. But you knew Emma, didn't you?"

A long pause followed in which Sherlock stared intently at Mrs. Cubbitt. She stared back unflinchingly for several beats until she let out a long sigh.

"I thought Harry was looking around for other women," she said. "We grew apart... Like people do, you know. I - I set him up with Emma. I found her number in the paper and asked her to try and... Seduce him..."

"You baited him?" said John incredulously.

"If he loved me, he wouldn't have gone for her!" Mrs. Cubbitt cried defensively. "I know it sounds ridiculous, but I -"

"Never mind that," said Sherlock with a wave of his hand. "Emma Foster. What is she? A private investigator?"

"Professional Companion, she called herself."

"A call girl?" said John, aghast.

Mrs. Cubbitt frowned.

"If you want to put it indelicately, yes."

"What paper did you find Emma's number in?" Sherlock asked.

Mrs. Cubbitt reached into her back and pulled out a newspaper clipping, which she passed to Sherlock.

"She put an advertisement in my husband's paper," said Mrs. Cubbitt. "I saw it about five months ago and decided to give her a call. He was always so careful about who he sold slots to... I thought it was odd he'd let someone of her _profession_ buy a space -"

"What did you just say?" Sherlock asked. His eyes snapped up to meet Mrs. Cubbitt's over the top of the paper clipping.

"I thought it was odd he'd let someone -"

"No," said Sherlock quickly, "your husband ran a _newspaper_?"

"Yes," said Mrs. Cubbitt. She seemed very confused. "Didn't you know?"

"It uh - It never came up," said John. "Why's the newspaper important, Sherlock?"

"Please, John," said Sherlock, jumping to his feet, "what business was our friend Magnussen in?"

John inhaled sharply.

"Newspapers," he said quietly.

"I recognize that name," said Mrs. Cubbitt. "Magnussen... He was Harry's biggest competition. You don't think he was behind this?"

"Magnussen has been dead for eight months," said Sherlock. "Your husband ran a newspaper and you didn't know that?"

Mrs. Cubbitt stiffened.

"Like I said, we were in a bit of a rough patch. Communication wasn't our strongest point."

"It all makes complete sense!" said Sherlock.

"Of course it does," said John with a roll of his eyes.

"Slater hires Emma to be his girlfriend while he spies on Magnussen," said Sherlock. He was pacing and speaking very quickly. "When Magnussen dies, Slater stays undercover to dismantle his network. Harry Cubbitt, with Magnussen out of the way, sees an opportunity to move his way up in the press world by prying into Magnussen's dirty laundry. Slater thinks his cover might be exposed. He needs a way to throw Harry off his tracks. Emma gets a call from Mrs. Cubbitt - perfect way to find out what Harry knows. Emma spies on Harry and passes information back to Slater. Slater realizes Harry knows too much and arranges with Emma to take him out."

"Oh, God!" Mrs. Cubbitt cried. "_She_ did it?"

"She had a part in it, yes," said Sherlock. "Thank you for the information, Helen." He began ushering her out of the door. "If we need anything else from you, we won't hesitate to call."

The door was slammed in Mrs. Cubbitt's face before she had a chance to protest.

"That was nice," said John sarcastically. He stared at the door, aghast.

"You saw the look on her face. She was about to start crying, and I don't have the time to comfort grieving widows at the moment."

"Lovely," said John. He decided to let the incident go. "Well we know why they did it, then. But what was all the business with the Dancing Men? The cryptic messages? What were they for?"

"Best guess," said Sherlock, "they'd established a code while Slater was working for Magnussen to pass secret messages to one another. To the unknowing eye, the messages would seem unimportant, even if the code was broken. Flirtations, meeting places and times, that sort of thing."

"Messages within messages then?" John offered.

"Most likely. If we kept digging into that code we'd probably find out what Slater was really telling Emma. But we haven't got time for all of that."

"Don't we?" said John.

At that moment, his phone rang. It was from Mary. John glanced up at Sherlock who was watching him closely. He answered the call.

"Mary, hello?"

"Hello, sweetie."

John stiffened. She never called him that - It was their code word. Something was wrong.

"What's going on, are you okay?"

"I was just wondering when you'd be home," she said. "There's someone here to see you. An old friend, he says he won't be in town for long and he'd really like to see you."

Her voice was very calm and collected, but she spoke each word carefully. John clenched his fist.

"We're at Baker Street, we're coming there straight away. Stay put."

"Love you, too."

John hung up the phone. Sherlock had already put on his coat and scarf.

"Is he with Mary?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," said John. He grabbed his keys off the table.

"I know several back roads we can take, get there much quicker."

"You drive,then."


	7. Chapter 7

Had John's family not been held hostage at that moment, John would have immensely regretted his decision to let Sherlock drive. The detective was a madman on the road; he drove well over the speed limit and had, apparently, no concept of what the term "One-Way" street meant. It was lucky it was Sunday - there weren't many people on the road. At one point, he turned down a narrow alley and proceeded to blaze down the middle of a crowded farmer's market.

"A traffic violation would slow us down quite a bit," John snapped, clenching his fists on his armrest.

"I have the police patrols memorized," said Sherlock simply. "We won't run into any trouble.

And they didn't. They arrived in front of John's house in less than half the time it would've taken John to get there. John opened his door and leaped from the seat before Sherlock had completely screeched to a stop. Sherlock called out to him, but John was already at his front door.

"Mary!" he called as he burst into the foyer. "Mary!"

"In the sitting room, sweetie," said Mary calmly.

John braced himself, took a couple of deep breaths, and turned the corner to the sitting room. He heard Sherlock bounding up the stairs behind him. They took in the scene together.

Mary and Violet were sitting side by side on the couch. _Sunday_, John reminded himself. Of course - Violet had stopped by to pick up her pay check. John's heart dropped to his knees when he saw Abby bouncing giddily on Violet's knee. She was completely unaware of what was going on in the room around her.

A man who could only be Al Slater sat in the chair that Sherlock had occupied the night before. He was still wearing his janitor's uniform. His legs were crossed - he could have been having tea with the girls had it not been for the pistol he was twirling in his right hand. He gave Sherlock and John a kind smile as they stepped into the room.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said warmly, but his steely eyes glinted with malice. "Why don't you come in and join us?"

Neither John nor Sherlock moved.

"All right, Mary?" John asked.

"Fine," she said calmly.

"Violet?"

"Good, thanks," she replied. Her voice was very steady, and she seemed relaxed enough. John suspected she might be in shock.

"They're all fine, Dr. Watson," said Slater. "They've been very cooperative, haven't they Emma?"

"Astoundingly, yes," said a smooth female voice. Emma Foster (they could tell, for she was identical to her dead sister) walked in from the kitchen. She too carried a gun. "We've been having a lovely chat about you boys."

"And reading Dr. Watson's blog," said Slater. He tapped John's laptop, which rested open on the side table next to Slater's chair. "Quite the career you two have had."

"And quite a lot of trouble too," Emma added. "Burglary, kidnappings, _murder_."

"You've given us a fair bit of bother as well," said Slater. "We don't like that, do we?"

"Not at all," said Emma, shaking her head. She pointed her gun in the direction of John and Sherlock. They raised their hands, she motioned for them to sit on the couch next to Mary and Violet. The two men complied; Abby continued to babble away wordlessly.

"She's rather adorable," said Emma.

"Please," said John, "let my family leave. They've nothing to do with this. It was all Sherlock and -"

"Don't waste time, Dr. Watson, we know that," said Slater. He sounded incredibly bored. "This is a hostage situation. They're our leverage. As long as they're in the room, we can be sure we'll get what we want."

"Which is what, exactly?" asked Sherlock. His voice was cold, calculating.

"Insurance, Mr. Holmes," said Emma.

"Fine, then," said Sherlock. "We won't go to the police if you leave this house and never bother John and Mary again.

Slater and Emma laughed.

"Good," said Slater. "Thank you. We'll just pop off now. That's all we wanted."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit, Mr. Slater," he said. "As someone who was clever enough to hide from Charles Magnussen for as long as you did, I had higher hopes for you."

Slater chuckled darkly.

"Have it your way, Mr. Holmes," he said. "You're quite right. Let's get to the point, shall we?" He cocked his pistol. "I need insurance."

"Well, you could always kill us," said Sherlock. John turned his head sharply to look at him, but Sherlock ignored this. "That's the easiest way to know someone will keep their mouth shut."

"Your brother is one of the most powerful men in the land. I sent him a little message to let him know where we were. I'd say it'll take him about ten minutes to break the code, another ten to figure out where we all are, and ten to arrive on the scene. So for the next thirty minute, we're all going to sit here quietly, wait for Mycroft to arrive, and then we're going to bargain for Emma and my freedom."

"You overestimate the sentiment my brother feels for me," said Sherlock.

"On the contrary, Mr. Holmes, I seem to have underestimated it in the past."

"Hold on," said John. "You want to use Sherlock for leverage?"

"Yes," said Slater. "Really, Mr. Holmes, your companion is rather thick -"

"What does my family have to do with this, then? Why can't we let them go?"

Mary shifted on the couch beside him. Her eyes briefly fluttered to Abby, who was reaching to pull Violet's hair.

Slater blinked.

"I worked for Magnussen for several years, Dr. Watson," he said. "I knew almost everything about the man and the people he manipulated. I know, therefore, as long as I have your wife and daughter in the room, yourself and Sherlock Holmes will not act rashly."

"Control Mary Watson, you control John Watson," said Emma languidly. "You control John Watson, you control Sherlock Holmes. You control Sherlock Holmes -"

"You control Mycroft Holmes, and therefore the British nation," Sherlock finished. "Really, this plot is so eight months ago."

"Perhaps," said Slater. "But it's proven its effectiveness nonetheless."

"Can I say something?" Everybody in the room started. It was Violet who had spoken. Her voice was just as even tempered as before. Slater nodded, indicating she could continue. "I think we would all feel a little more at ease if I put the baby in her room."

"And risk you phoning the police?" said Emma, advancing towards Violet. "Not a chance."

"She needs a change," said Violet. "After that, it'll be time for her nap."

Almost on queue, Abby began to wail.

"That's going to get old really fast," said Violet.

"You both have committed crimes thus far that Mycroft might be willing to forgive," Sherlock pointed out, "but I think infanticide might be a step over the line, don't you?"

Slater and Emma exchanged glances. Slater gave an almost imperceptible nod, and Emma pursed her lips.

"Fine," she said. "Let's go."

She motioned with her gun for Violet to stand. Violet cradled the shrieking baby carefully and made her way from the room. Emma followed not far behind, gun pointed straight at Violet's back.

The next five minuted passed in total silence. Slater held his gun lazily, his arm dangling off the side of the armchair. John stared straight at him, contemplating how quickly he could draw his own weapon and fire before Slater could take a shot himself. The odds were not good. Mary stared at the entrance to the hallway where Violet had disappeared with Abby. Sherlock stared straight ahead, his eyes unmoving.

Violet returned empty-handed with Emma following her closely, gun still raised. Mary let out the smallest sighs of relief when Violet retook her seat on the sofa.

"There, now," said Slater. "We can be reasonable people, you see."

"Perfectly reasonable, yeah," said John. "I usually like to spend my Sundays holding innocent people hostage, too."

"We're not being sarcastic Dr. Watson, remember."

"John can be as sarcastic as he likes," Sherlock snapped. "You're holding a gun to his wife."

John felt a surge of gratitude towards his friend.

"We still have twenty minutes left, Mr. Holmes," said Slater. "I advise in that time you don't aggravate me too much."

"We're doomed," Mary whispered under her breath.

She, John, and Violet couldn't contain their snorts. Sherlock shot them all a nasty look.

"Why don't we find a way to pass the time?" suggested Emma. "A game, perhaps?"

"What kind of game?" said Sherlock, apparently passively. Only John picked up on the hint of excitement in his voice.

"The blog talks about your deductions," said Emma. "I don't know if I quite believe it myself. How about giving us a little demonstration?"

"I don't make a point of showing off to strangers," said Sherlock blankly.

"Yes, you do," said John, Mary, and Violet at once.

"Yeah, okay, I do," said Sherlock. He stood and buttoned his blazer. Both Emma and Slater raised their guns to point at him. "The one question I kept asking myself on the drive here was this: why would Emma Foster, a call girl -"

"Professional Companion," Emma interjected.

"- a call girl get involved with an elaborate murder scheme and cover-up. Possibly you had feelings for Slater. Unlikely, given the fact that you haven't put on make-up for three days or bothered to shave your legs since the shootings. Rather odd behavior for a woman in your profession; appearance is usually everything to you. If the two of you _were _lovers, you likely would have consummated your reunion sometime in the past week, but you haven't. How do I know that? For one, you look as if you've been sleeping quite soundly this past week, Miss Foster. Our pal Al, on the other hand, has not, judging by the dark circles under his eyes and the way his breathing pattern is interrupted every time you walk into the room. Conclusion: he's wanted to '_shag' _you for quite some time, but you haven't let him. Quite an indelicate word, I've always thought." This last sentence was uttered more quietly, almost like a musing. Sherlock went on without skipping a beat.

"Which begs the question: why did you do it? I'd like to phone a friend for this one. Metaphorically phone, of course, since she's sitting in this room. Violet -" Violet jumped at being addressed, "- since this is your field, would you mind telling us what the three primary motives of murder are?"

"Sex, power, and money," said Violet.

"Thank you," said Sherlock. "We've already ruled out sex; you aren't interested in Slater. Power is a possibility, though unlikely. You're used to being dominated given your profession. That leaves us with money. Judging my your nail beds, you prefer to have regular manicures but haven't been able to afford them recently. You lived in a nice house, but hadn't been able to pay the gardener - the shrubs were overgrown and there were weeds in the flowerbeds. Your parents cut you out of your inheritance years ago when they discovered what you did for a living. You needed another way to find your fortune, and Slater here, who let his sentiment cloud his judgment, promised you more than your fair share if you helped him with his little scheme. From there, I'd say it wouldn't be too far a leap to assume you were planning to kill him once both of you were safely tucked away in exile."

"How did you deduce that?" Emma asked flatly.

"Just a guess," said Sherlock. He looked between Slater and Emma, then glanced at John. "Vatican Cameo."

He, John, and Mary all hit the floor. Mary grabbed Violet by her shirt and yanked her to the ground as well, just in time. Slater stood, gun drawn, and fired at Emma. Emma ducked and returned fire, hitting the window behind slater and shattering glass everywhere. John reached into his coat pocket for his own weapon. Slater saw this and turned his gun on John, opening the way for Emma to take another shot. She clipped Slater in the shoulder. He cried out and dropped his gun, which Mary scurried toward. Emma raised her gun again, aiming it at Mary.

"No!" Sherlock cried, stepping between Emma and Mary.

A shot rang out. John yelled. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself for impact. He heard a thud and snapped his eyes open. Emma Foster had had fallen to the floor. A pool of blood was spreading quickly around her head. She was dead. Behind her was Detective Inspector Lestrade. He stood framed in the doorway, his own gun raised.

"I can't leave the pair of you alone for more than twelve hours, can I?" he said.


	8. Chapter 8

"I did advise you to stay away from this one, brother."

"And I did advise you that I wouldn't."

The Holmes brothers were seated at the Watsons' dining room table, opposite one another. The adjacent sitting room was swarming with activity. John and Mary were talking to Lestrade. Violet was being interviewed by Donovan. Several other officers were taking pictures and gathering evidence. Emma Foster's body had been removed, Al Slater had been taken into custody, and Anderson was going around with a bucket and scrub brush, looking disgruntled. He'd been assigned clean-up duty.

"I'll admit," said Mycroft, "I was worried when I received Slater's call. He's notorious in the ranks for being as ruthless as he is cunning. That's why he was chosen for this assignment."

"All that cleverness gone to waste," Sherlock mused. "That's sentiment for you."

"Yes," Mycroft agreed. "You'd know all about that."

His eyes flickered to the sitting room. Sherlock followed his gaze and locked eyes with John. They exchanged small grins.

"Anyway," said Mycroft, eyeing this silent communication carefully, "Scotland Yard is choosing to overlook this little deviation from your assignment. They've known their agent had gone rogue for a while now. But of course, Slater was so far undercover that they couldn't pin him down."

"What does it say about the security of the British nation when they can't identify their own?" Sherlock teased.

"Make as many deductions as you'd like," said Mycroft with a shrug. "Then get back to work." His expression softened. "As always, well done."

It was Sherlock's turn to shrug.

"All in a day's work," he said.

"Indeed." Mycroft's eyes wandered to the sitting room again, and then his stare settled on Violet. "The nanny. She placed the call to Lestrade?"

"Apparently," said Sherlock, glancing over at the young woman. "Had his number on speed-dial. She used the ruse of getting Abby out of the room, pressed his number, and left the phone in Abby's crib. I gather the sound of a crying infant got his attention. He was able to trace the signal from there."

"Genius," Mycroft noted. "You do have a knack for choosing them, don't you?"

"Choosing? What?"

"Your friends, if that's what you want to call them."

Mycroft stood, bid his farewells to Violet and the Watsons, and left.

Over the next several hours, the activity in the house quieted. The last of the sitting room was cleaned, smelling strongly of disinfectant. Lestrade offered to put John and Mary up in a hotel for the evening, which they declined. Neither of them experienced any lingering feelings of unrest after the incident. Finally, around sunset, everyone had cleared out except Sherlock and Violet. They, John and Mary sat around the dining room table eating leftovers from the night before. Apart from everyone being rather tired, there was no evidence left of the fright they'd had earlier that day.

"I can't keep thanking you," said Mary to Violet. She reached out to pat the younger woman on the shoulder. "That was really a brave thing you did."

Violet blushed.

"It was nothing," she said quickly.

"No, Mary's right, we owe you one," said John through a mouthful of bread. "I don't understand, though - how'd you dial the phone without Emma noticing?"

"Knocked over the baby powder," said Violet humbly. "I'd hidden the phone up my sleeve on the way to Abby's room, and when I knelt down to pick up the powder, I pressed Lestrade's number."  
>"Very clever," Sherlock noted. He gave her the smallest of smiles, which she returned.<p>

"Mmm!" Mary exclaimed through a mouthful of soup; she'd apparently just remembered something. She let her spoon drop and clatter against the bowl, swallowing quickly."We were looking through your portfolio this morning, before we were interrupted."

"Right," said Violet. She stood and went into the sitting room for a moment.

"Have you seen any of her work?" Mary asked John and Sherlock. "She's fantastic!"

"Stop talking me up, Mary," said Violet when she returned. She set a large blue binder in the middle of the table.

"I was thinking of buying something from her," said Mary as John began flipping through the pages. "Now we might have to pay double. Show our gratitude."

Violet blushed again.

"That's really not -"

"Ah, shut up and finish your soup," said John. "You deserve -"

He paused mid-sentence and his eyes went wide. Violet looked over the top of the binder at him.

"I've been meaning to take that one out of there," she said apologetically. "I sold it months ago -"

"Sherlock," said John. "Have a look."

John shoved the binder at Sherlock, who sputtered a bit into his water.

"John, what -?"

But then his eyes too, went wide when he saw the painting.

"It's really not _that _good," Violet mumbled.

"What is it?" asked Mary.

John showed her the painting, too.

"The Dancing Men?" she gasped.

"It's the exact painting that was hanging in Magnussen's house," said Sherlock.

"What's going on?" said Violet. She was looking around at everyone, astonished.

"Who did you sell this painting to?" Sherlock asked.

Violet frowned.

"Like I said, it was months ago. I was still in America. I don't remember the name, and I never met them. But they payed much more than it was worth. That's how I got my ticket to London, actually."

"Incredible," John breathed. "How about that Sherlock? Crazy coincidence, eh?"

"The universe is rarely so lazy," Sherlock muttered, his eyes fixed on the Dancing Men.

* * *

><p>Violet sighed heavily as she tossed her keys onto the table by her door. She rolled her neck several times before crossing to the kitchen to put the kettle on. A voice spoke from her sofa.<p>

"Your paintings really are quite remarkable."

Violet would have been startled, but she recognized the voice instantly. She was hardly surprised; she'd expected Sherlock Holmes would have had many questions after their run-in earlier that day.

"How did you get in?" she asked, turning the light on. He was lying with his feet up on her couch (his shoes still on, she noticed with annoyance) and his hand pressed together under his chin in the pose she'd seen him take many times in the short span they'd known one another.

"The lock was easy enough to pick," he told her, sitting up. "Interesting, though. I thought you would've asked how I got here before you did, seeing as you'd left first."

"I took the tube, you took a cab," she replied mildly. "Frequent stops for the train, wouldn't be too difficult to beat my time. And I'm sure you know all the quickest routes."

Sherlock's only response was to smile.

"What do you want, Holmes?" Violet demanded. There was only a slight hint of irritation in her voice.

He studied her intently.

"You don't like me." It was not a question, but a statement.

"I haven't decided yet," said Violet honestly.

"It's alright if you don't, most people are like that."

"I wonder if there's a reason for that," said Violet ironically. "What do you want?" she repeated.

"I wanted to thank you," said Sherlock.

Violet was surprised by this.

"For what?"

"Phoning Lestrade. That was brave of you."

"John and Mary already thanked me."

"I haven't." Sherlock sighed before continuing. "John and Mary - they're a family to me. If anything had happened to them..." His voice trailed off, and suddenly Sherlock seemed very uncomfortable. He cleared his throat loudly.

It was Violet's turn to study Sherlock.

"That was a rather uncharacteristic display of emotion," she noted.

"I do try to keep that sort of thing hidden," said Sherlock.

"I've noticed."

Sherlock's eyes flickered up to meet hers. A silent understanding seemed to pass between them.

"You were very brave today," said Sherlock.

"People keep saying that," said Violet.

"More than that," said Sherlock. He shook his head. "You were _calm_."

"What are you deducing from that?"

"Many possibilities," said Sherlock. "I need more information."

"Ah," said Violet. "I'm afraid I can't help you there."

Sherlock turned to look at the painting by the window: the boy and girl in a field of flowers.

"There seemed to be a common theme in much of your work," he commented. "Children, most often a boy and girl. Missed childhood, perhaps? Lost a brother or a friend at a young age -"

"You know when you asked if I didn't like you and I said I hadn't decided yet?" said Violet. "Liking you less every second."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched. Violet glared at him.

"If you really wanted to know," she said, "you could've looked me up by now. Child prodigy who finishes two doctorate degrees before she's twenty-five... That's bound to be in the news somewhere."

"What makes you think I haven't already?" said Sherlock. A trace of genuine frustration entered his tone. "I didn't uncover anything you haven't already told me, other than the fact you earned both your degrees from Dartmouth. Your family history is remarkably well covered."

"Figures," Violet muttered.

Sherlock changed the subject abruptly.

"The Dancing Men is an exception to your standard body of work - " he glanced back at Violet. "You still don't remember who bought that painting from you?"

"Online bid," said Violet. "It'd be pointless even if I did remember - they could have been using a different name."

"Where was it shipped?"

"London. But you already knew that if you saw it at Magnussen's place."

"Hmm..."

Sherlock kept looking from the field painting, to Violet, to the painting again. Violet shifted uncomfortably and cleared her throat, breaking Sherlock from his revere.

"What's so important about a painting?" she asked. "Sure, a couple of assassins used it to make a secret code, but what's that got to do with me? They could have used any old painting."

"But they didn't," said Sherlock. "They used yours. And coincidentally, the case is brought to my attention on the same day you were hired to nanny for John and Mary."

Violet shrugged.

"Like John said: crazy coincidence."

"And like I said: the universe is rarely so lazy."

Sherlock clapped his hands together abruptly.

"Well, best be off," he proclaimed, taking several long strides towards the door. "You ought to get some sleep, before the shock wears off."

Violet rolled her eyes.

"I'm _fine._"

Sherlock gave her one last look.

"I've no doubt," he said, and he was gone.

Violet couldn't help but chuckle to herself. Then she shook her head and made her way to the kitchen to put water on the stove. She watched the water boil for a couple of minutes before she was struck with a sudden thought. Her laptop was in her bedroom - she retrieved it and opened to her gallery sight, scrolling furiously through her records. Hopefully the archive wasn't so old it had been deleted...

There it was. 'The Dancing Men' receipt. A triumphant grin broke out over her face. She grabbed her phone and typed a message to Sherlock:

**12:47 AM VIOLET HORNER:**

Still had the receipt for the painting. Does the name 'Richard Brook' mean anything to you?

* * *

><p><strong>AN:<strong> Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this story! That's it for The Dancing Men; I hope to be posting the second installment, 'The Silver Blaze' within the next couple of days. If you enjoyed this story, don't hesitate to check that one out!


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